


the empty spaces left behind

by GreyMichaela



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Blow Jobs, Comfort/Angst, Double Penetration, Eager Consent, Gangbang, Hand Jobs, M/M, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Partners, NHL Trade(s), No cheating, it's a gangbang guys, straight up that's all it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 13:24:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19476793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyMichaela/pseuds/GreyMichaela
Summary: Andre gets traded to the Avalanche. He doesn't want to go.





	the empty spaces left behind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spoodlemonkey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/gifts).



> This fic will not be for everyone, and that's okay. I wrote it for my beloved Kelly, who's sad about losing Burky (although I'm personally thrilled he'll be an Av next year). It was meant to be fluff and then it took a hard left turn and became... filth. Welcome to the gutter, kick the banana peels out of the way while you get comfortable.

Andre is in the gym when he gets the news. His trainer has him on a new regime that he thinks is working well for him. He can feel himself getting stronger, faster, and he’s all for it. He’s  _ ready _ for the Caps’ new season, ready to prove himself, make himself indispensable in every way possible.

There are several missed calls on his phone when he gets back to the locker room and he frowns as he flicks through them. The first two are from the GM, and sick dread settles in Andre’s stomach. The next few are from teammates—Ovi, Holtby, and Willy among them—and the sick feeling solidifies. 

He shoves the phone in his bag and doesn’t look at it while he leaves the gym and heads for his favorite smoothie shop. It rings again while he’s in line but he doesn’t answer. He has to place his order, after all.

When he leaves the shop, mango-pineapple juice in hand, it rings again. And again. And again and again, until Andre hisses with fury and answers.

It’s Braden.

“Come over.” He hangs up, leaving Andre unable to use the no doubt very clever argument he had  _ against _ coming over. He doesn’t know what the argument would have been, but it would have been cutting and witty, he knows that much.

He shoves his phone in his pocket, swearing viciously—and then apologizing to the scandalized mother covering her daughter’s ears—and hails a taxi. 

He fumes the entire way to Braden’s house, still refusing to look at his phone or read his messages. He knows what they say. He  _ knows. _ The sickness in his belly is getting worse. He wants to throw up, or cry, or hit something.

But he does none of those things. He sits quietly, hands in his lap, and thankfully the driver takes the hint and doesn’t try to start a conversation.

Braden’s house is lit up, spilling warm, golden light onto the pavement as Andre gets out, gathers his bag and drink, tips the driver, and finally can’t delay any longer. He starts up the sidewalk, and Braden is there, holding the door open for him before Andre’s halfway up the walk. Braden’s eyes are soft with concern and he gathers Andre into a hug as soon as he’s close enough.

“You weren’t answering your phone,” he says in Andre’s ear.

Andre shrugs fractionally. Braden loosens his grip and pulls him into the house. “Come on, I have chips and dip and tequila.”

Well, Andre’s never been one to turn down alcohol and snacks. He follows Braden into the den and Braden tugs him down onto the couch, tucking him between his legs. Andre turns, curls up against Braden’s chest, and presses his ear to his heart. Like this, he can hear it steadily thumping away, solid and dependable, just like Braden.

“Have you checked your voicemail?”

Andre loves and hates that Braden knows him so well. He shakes his head slightly and feels more than hears Braden’s sigh.

“You have to listen to it some time.”

Andre doesn’t answer and Braden kisses his hair, a quick brush of his lips. 

“Let me have it, then.” 

Andre digs his phone out with an internal sigh and hands it over silently. Braden unlocks it and listens to the first message. Whatever he hears isn’t surprising to him—his posture doesn’t change.

“So where am I going,” Andre asks, monotone, when Braden sets the phone down.

Braden’s arms tighten around him. “Colorado,” he says gently.

Andre digests that for a few minutes. “The Avs,” he finally says.

“They’ll be good for you,” Braden replies.

Andre wants to pull away, shout at him that  _ no one _ is better for him than the Caps, but he’s suddenly so tired. All he can do is close his eyes and hold on.

“You’ll like them,” Braden persists. “Grubi’s there, he’ll make you feel welcome. And Gabe’s a good captain. He’ll take good care of you—plus he’s Swedish!”

“Braden,” Andre interrupts.

“Yeah, Burk.”

“Please just… shut up,” Andre whispers.

Braden tightens his grip and presses another kiss to his hair. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

They sit quietly for a while, until there’s a heavy fist banging on the door and then feet coming down the hall.

“Ovi,” Braden says under his breath, and Andre rolls his eyes as he sits up. Like he needed to be told.

Alexander Ovechkin bursts into the room, arrowing in on Andre. “You!” he says.

“Be gentle,” Braden says. “He’s had a rough day.”

Ovi ignores him, grabbing Andre’s shoulders and pulling him up off the couch. “You’re not answer phone, I’m think you’re dead in ditch somewhere. Think maybe I  _ leave _ you dead in ditch somewhere once I find you.”

Tears suddenly prickle Andre’s eyes and he sniffles, horrified at himself. Ovi’s fierce expression immediately softens and he hauls Andre into a hug.

“No ditch for you,” he says quietly in Andre’s ear. He smells like Old Spice and clean sweat, and Andre closes his eyes, pushing his face into Ovi’s chest.

When he lifts his head, Nicke is there, sympathy in his eyes, and Andre can’t stop the tears from falling as he reaches for him.

_ “Jag vill inte dit,” _ he says, bending his knees so he can tuck his face into Nicke’s throat.

Nicke holds him and says nothing, rubbing his back. Dimly, Andre can feel Ovi’s hand on his shoulder and Braden right behind him, close enough he can feel his body heat.

It’s Ovi who breaks up the moment, because of course it is. “Too much sad!” he says, and chivvies Andre to the couch. “We’re be happy now, drink Holtby’s tequila—should be vodka but he not perfect—and watch bad movies. Yes? Yes. Good. Burky, you sit. Here.” He indicates the spot right next to him, and Nicke crowds up against Andre’s other side as more footsteps come down the hall. 

Jakub appears, Brett behind him. TJ is next, holding a huge bowl of snack mix from Lauren, who’d remembered how much Andre loves chocolate Chex. One by one, they all trickle into the living room, flopping down wherever there’s room and bickering over control of the remote. The snack mix ends up in Andre’s lap somehow, and Braden shoves a glass of tequila at him. Last one through the door is Tom, and something loosens in Andre’s chest at the sight of him. Tom makes a beeline for him, stepping over bodies and ignoring protests, until he’s standing over Andre, who’s still clutching his tequila and Chex mix.

“Move,” Tom says, and Andre blinks, confused, until he realizes Tom was talking to Nicke.

“Is that any way to speak to your papa?” Ovi scolds from the other side.

Tom gives him a flat look. “One of you move, I don’t care which.”

Nicke and Ovi exchange glances and Ovi shrugs elaborately and gets up like he’d been planning to all along. Tom’s there immediately, squeezing into the space beside Andre. He’s warm and firm and Andre’s eyes prickle again. He turns his face into Tom’s throat, breathing in deep gulps.

“It’s so stupid,” he finally says, when he’s sure his voice won’t wobble.

Tom wraps his arm around Andre’s shoulders. “No it’s not. It’s the end of an era. We won the Cup together and now they’re splitting us up, selling us to the highest bidders. You’re allowed to be upset about that.”

Andre takes a deep breath. Tom smells as good as ever, and Andre allows himself a brief moment of longing. He’s  _ wanted _ Tom for almost as long as he’s known him, even longer than he’s wanted Braden, but nothing ever happened.  _ Probably because of Latts, _ his helpful brain supplies, and Andre scowls and pushes his face harder into Tom’s shoulder.

Tom rubs his back, hand roaming up and down, from the nape of his neck all the way down below his waist. Andre takes a startled breath but doesn’t move. Tom’s hand slides under Andre’s shirt, warm on the skin of his back, and slips one finger under the waistband of Andre’s boxers.

And then he stops.

Andre doesn’t move, afraid of shattering the spell or whatever’s got Tom touching  _ him _ instead of the other way around, and Tom makes a quiet, questioning noise, low enough only Andre can hear.

_ Yes. _ Andre nods frantically, face still buried in Tom’s shirt, and feels Tom press a kiss to his hair.

His hand dips lower, beneath the boxers and caressing the curve of Andre’s ass. Andre shudders. The way they’re sitting, it’s likely no one else in the room even realizes what they’re doing, as long as he can keep himself under control.

And then he opens his eyes.

Ovi is sprawled in the chair opposite them, openly rubbing himself through his jeans. TJ and Jakub are on their knees facing Andre and Tom, want on their faces and visible tents in their pants. Nicke hasn’t moved, but the bulge in his trousers betrays the stoic look on his face. And Braden—Braden is standing in the doorway holding a tray of finger food, and Andre’s never seen him look the way he does now, hunger and need and desperation all blended together.

“What—” Andre’s voice cracks and he flinches, but no one chirps him for it.

“You have to leave,” Tom says, and the words hurt like the lash of a whip despite the gentleness of his voice. “But we can show you how much we love you before you go.”

Andre swallows hard several times. This can’t be happening. This is his go-to fantasy, the one that he comes back to whenever he’s alone in his big bed, horny and lonely and wishing for someone to touch him. He’s dreaming, he has to be.

Tom squeezes his ass. “If you don’t want it, we can put on a movie and pretend this never happened.”

_ “No,” _ Andre blurts desperately. “No,  _ please, _ I want—but—” He looks around the room. “You—” Gesturing vaguely to encompass most of them does the trick, he hopes. “Married. You can’t—”

“We talked about it,” TJ says, shuffling forward on his knees so he can rub Andre’s calf with one big hand. “Everyone here has a hall pass. We’re all here because we  _ want _ this.”

Andre blinks. “A what?”

“Hall pass,” Tom says, sliding his hand across Andre’s buttock until he can slip a finger into the crack, which makes Andre lose the thread of the conversation briefly. “—means their wives said it was okay, basically.”

Andre looks at Ovi, who nods, sharing a fond glance with Nicke. At Nicke, who also nods, and then TJ, who grins openly at him.

“She made me promise to give her details,” he says, shrugging as if to say  _ what can you do? _

Andre’s heart lurches in his chest. “I—I want—what do we do?”

Tom tilts his head back, free hand under his chin. “Anything you want,” he whispers, and kisses him.

His lips are soft, and Andre’s brain shorts out when Tom’s tongue touches his, warm and wet and tasting like tequila. He whimpers, high in his throat, and twists, trying to get more,  _ feel _ more, get closer somehow. Tom helps, grabbing him by the waist and lifting and pulling until Andre is settled in his lap.

Andre looks down at him, the others in the room briefly forgotten. Tom smiles up at him.

“What about Latts?” Andre whispers.

“He’d be here too, if he could,” Tom says, rubbing Andre’s thighs. “He loves you too, you know.”

Andre moans and dives back in for another kiss. He’s so focused on how Tom feels under him that it takes him several minutes to realize the others have crowded closer. Someone’s hand is on Andre’s ass, squeezing and kneading. Someone else has gotten their fingers up under Andre’s shirt, exploring his back muscles with a touch just firm enough that it doesn’t tickle.

“Too many clothes,” TJ complains from behind him.

Tom breaks the kiss, smiling against Andre’s mouth when he makes a complaining noise. He takes hold of Andre’s shirt and pulls, stripping it off over his head with ease. The pants are a little more complicated, because to remove them, Andre has to get off Tom’s lap, and Andre is very much against that plan.

“Do you want us to touch your dick or not?” Tom finally asks. Andre scowls but scrambles to his feet. Arms come around him from behind, a chin hooking over his shoulder. Andre knows Braden’s smell, his touch, everything about him—he’d recognize him in pitch blackness, he thinks, and he lets his head fall back against Braden’s shoulder as hands work on his belt and zipper.

Others in the room are stripping out of their clothes as well, still watching Andre as he’s manhandled gently but firmly by Braden into full nudity and then resettled on Tom, who’s taken the opportunity to also get naked while he waits.

Andre’s chest is tight. It’s hard to breathe. He  _ wants, _ but he doesn’t even know  _ what _ he wants, just that he needs his team, needs to be touched, to be  _ loved. _

“Hey, easy,” Braden says. He straddles one of Tom’s thighs, a knee on the couch so he can press himself up against Andre’s back. “We’re here. Okay? We’ve got you.”

Andre turns his head, blindly seeking Braden’s mouth, and nearly moans with relief when their lips meet. Braden doesn’t kiss like Tom—he’s more assertive, almost demanding with the way he takes control, holds Andre where he wants him, cupping his face in one big hand. Andre can’t help melting into it, bones going to liquid as Braden devours his mouth and grinds against his ass. 

Tom takes hold of him and Andre breaks the kiss with a sharp noise, curling forward as Tom strokes.

“Such a pretty dick,” Tom murmurs. “Matches the rest of you.”

Andre shudders and Braden wraps an arm around his waist to keep him in place.

“What do you want?” Braden asks in his ear. “What do you want us to do to you?” He nips Andre’s earlobe, making him twitch, and Tom doesn’t lose his rhythm. “Anything you want, babe.”

“Fuck,” Andre gasps. He’s shaking, head spinning with pleasure, and Braden’s arm around him is the only thing keeping him upright. “Fuck me,” he manages.  _ “Please.” _

Braden reaches down, catches Tom’s wrist. “He’s going to come too soon if you keep that up,” he says over Andre’s moan of protest. 

“Where do you want him?” Tom asks.

Braden considers, still pressed against Andre’s back, his hard length insistent. “On the couch, on his back,” he finally says. “Where we can all see him.”

It shouldn’t be hot, them discussing him as if he doesn’t have a voice in the matter, as if he’s an object to be positioned where they want, but Andre can’t help the thrill that goes through him as Braden stands and lifts him off Tom’s lap, turning him and smiling down as he cups his cheek again.

“If you want to stop, if anything gets to be too much,” he says, holding Andre’s gaze, “you  _ say so, _ okay? Don’t you dare try to take it if it hurts or you don’t want it. This—all of this, all of us—it’s for you, okay?”

Overwhelmed, Andre closes his eyes and sways forward, into Braden’s arms. Braden holds him for a minute, touch comforting, and then he moves him, helping him lie down on the couch which is suddenly empty of occupants. Andre looks up, searching for Tom and Nicke, and finds them on their knees not far away. He reaches out a hand and Tom takes it as Nicke strokes the skin of his wrist, their touch grounding.

Braden is kneeling between Andre’s thighs, lube in hand. He drops a handful of condoms on the cushions by Andre’s hip, making him gulp, and pops the cap on the lube.

“Gonna get you ready,” he says, smiling down at him. “Don’t come yet, okay?”

Words have deserted Andre completely. He nods dumbly and Braden’s eyes soften.

“You’ll like this,” he promises.

He presses one slick finger inside without hesitation, all the way to the last knuckle as Andre’s spine bows and he cries out. Tom’s grip tightens on his hand, and Nicke shuffles around so he’s closer to Andre’s face. Ovi joins him, squeezing in next to him and dropping a careless kiss on Nicke’s cheek before bending to take Andre’s mouth.

Ovi kisses like he plays hockey, rough and wild and domineering. Someone’s hand—probably Nicke’s—is on Andre’s cock. Ovi is kissing him breathless as Tom hangs onto Andre’s hand and Braden adds another finger. He scissors them and Andre sobs against Ovi’s mouth. It’s too much and not enough all at once, he wants more but thinks distantly that it might very well kill him if another person touched him right now.

Nicke breaks their kiss by the simple expedient of a hand on Ovi’s face, shoving him away. Ovi makes an outraged noise but Nicke just arches a brow at him and Ovi subsides.

“My turn,” Nicke murmurs.

On balance, Andre thinks Nicke might be the best kisser of the group. He’s technically precise, careful to gauge Andre’s responses and adjust his own behavior accordingly. But there’s something almost… detached about it, Andre thinks, as if Nicke’s concentrating so hard on making it good for him that he’s forgotten to enjoy himself too.

Well, Andre can help with that. He catches Nicke’s lower lip between his teeth and bites down. Salty copper floods his mouth and Nicke jerks away with a yelp, hand to his mouth and eyes startled.

“What the fuck?”

Andre bares bloody teeth at him, rocking down onto Braden’s hand. He thinks Braden might be up to three fingers already and it’s making it hard to focus, but he gathers his strength. “Kiss me like you mean it,” he challenges, and Nicke’s eyes narrow.

The kiss this time is wild, chaotic. Nicke tastes like blood and tequila, gripping Andre’s chin in a punishingly tight hold and plundering his mouth with hard sweeps of his tongue as his breath puffs hot over Andre’s cheek.

Andre surrenders gladly to it, letting Nicke set the pace, content to just hang on for the ride. Braden twists his fingers and Andre jolts, crying out. Nicke doesn’t break the kiss but he slows it, gentles it, goes from holding Andre’s head in place to cupping his cheek. It’s sweet and tender, and it makes Andre’s heart hurt.

“Please,” he whispers against Nicke’s mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Nicke says. “Is he ready, Braden?”

Braden curls his fingers one more time, grinning as Andre whimpers. “I’d say so.” He drops a kiss on Andre’s knee as he pulls out, leaving him feeling empty, but then Ovi is settling into place between his thighs, his eyes hot with promise.

“Breathe,” Ovi says, and pushes inside with no more warning than that.

It’s so much  _ more _ than Braden’s fingers, the thick length filling him until he’s shaking with it, already overstimulated and Ovi’s barely even gotten situated. He’s not going to last, Andre knows, and he closes his eyes, still hanging onto Tom’s hand as Ovi begins to move.

Thoughts scatter, banished by the slow drag and thrust of Ovi’s cock, Nicke’s hand still restlessly roaming his chest, Tom gripping his hand, and his own arousal burning deep in his core, threatening to set him on fire from the inside out.

Braden kneels at the head of the couch and takes Andre’s other hand, kissing his fingers one by one. “Jack him, Nicky,” he says, then sucks a finger into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it.

Andre whines, high and helpless, as Nicke takes hold of him. His grip is a little too firm, strokes a little too fast, but it’s not going to matter, he’s about to fall off this cliff and he can’t—

“Stop,” Braden orders, and Nicke obeys instantly.

Andre swears thickly, breaking off into a helpless noise as Ovi thrusts again. “Please,” he manages. “Come on,  _ please, _ I need—”

“Again,” Braden says.

Nicke touches him again and Andre arches into it, rocking up into his fist and down onto Ovi’s cock.

“Yes, yes, fuck, yes,” he chants. He’s so close—

“Stop,” Braden says.

Andre is going to  _ cry. _ Ovi’s still going, but his thrusts are getting erratic, eyes losing focus. He grinds in deep, sweat dampening his temples, and goes still as he comes, mouth falling open a little. Andre rolls his hips, desperate for contact, making Ovi twitch.

“Come on,” he says, not sure who he’s talking to. “Please, come on, I need to—”

“Shh,” Braden tells him. He kisses Andre’s palm, lips lingering. “We’ve got you, remember? Can you trust us?”

Andre doesn’t think he’ll ever trust anyone the way he trusts  _ his _ team, his packmates and friends. He goes limp, and Braden rewards him with another kiss. 

“Doing so good,” he tells him.

Ovi pulls out and bends to kiss him. “Thank you,” he whispers against Andre’s mouth, and then he’s gone and Nicke is there, settling in place, smoothing his hands over Andre’s thighs and stomach. He brushes the head of his cock where it’s resting on Andre’s belly, sticky with pre-come, and Andre whimpers. He’s so hard it hurts, so hard he can barely stand to be touched. He’s never truly understood the term ‘hair-trigger’ before, but he gets it now. He grips Tom’s and Braden’s hands as Nicke puts the condom on.

“Don’t bite me again,” Nicke warns.

“Fuck me right and I won’t have to,” Andre shoots back, grinning at him.

Nicke rolls his eyes as Ovi strokes Andre’s chest and stomach, occasionally straying up to tweak his nipple. 

He doesn’t fuck like Ovi any more than he kisses like him. He slides inside slow and easy, giving Andre plenty of time to adjust, pressing their chests together and kissing along Andre’s jaw as he rolls his hips in deliciously slow circles.

“He’s good, yes?” Ovi murmurs. “Nicke’s cock is best.”

Nicke half-laughs and sits up, pulling Andre’s hips tight against him and beginning to thrust in sharp, controlled movements.

“He’s fuck me like this all the time,” Ovi continues, and Andre is losing his grip on awareness but his imagination still conjures up the image of Nicke buried deep inside Ovi and it makes him jerk as Nicke speeds up the pace. 

“Touch him again, Nicky,” Braden says.

Nicke obeys, one hand bracing himself on the couch next to Andre’s head and the other wrapped around Andre’s cock, and now his strokes are perfectly timed, smooth and even and just the right grip, like he’s been taking the time to learn Andre’s body so he can take him apart  _ properly. _

Andre’s heels scrabble against the couch, but he has no purchase. Tom and Braden are holding his wrists, keeping him exactly where they want him, and Andre is hurtling helplessly toward the precipice again.

“Please Braden,” he chokes as Nicke twists his wrist and drives deep. “Please let me—”

“Do it,” Braden orders, and Andre comes with a sob, pulses so thick and heavy one hits his throat.

Someone swears in an awed voice, but Andre’s too strung out to know—or care—who. Nicke’s wringing the pleasure from him, strokes slowing as Andre nears oversensitivity. His thrusts are growing erratic, and it’s a handful of seconds before he drops his face to Andre’s chest and goes still, shuddering all over.

“Good job, babe,” Ovi coos from somewhere above Andre, and Nicke snorts.

Lifting his head, he kisses Andre gently, thumb stroking his cheekbone. When he pulls out, Andre sighs, eyes drifting shut.

“Can you take some more?” Braden asks in his ear.

Andre feels boneless with bliss, soaked in pleasure. He nods languidly and someone wipes his chest and stomach. Andre pries an eye open to see Jakub.

“Hey,” he slurs, grinning drunkenly at him.

“Hey yourself,” Jakub says. “You up for this?”

Andre hums, not really seeing the need for words, but Jakub hesitates.

“He’d say if he wasn’t,” Braden says, rubbing Andre’s pulse-point. “Go ahead.”

Andre’s mind is hazy as Jakub presses inside. He rolls his head to the side, pushing his face into his bicep, and sighs happily. Jakub fucks him carefully, as if keeping a leash on himself, hands roaming across Andre’s chest as he drives home over and over until he gasps a curse and curls forward, shaking through his orgasm.

Andre barely notices when he leaves—a kiss pressed to his mouth before going—and is replaced by Brett. 

“God, he’s out of it,” Brett says.

“That’s where I want him,” Braden replies. “See if you can get him hard again.”

It takes some time, but Brett Connolly is a patient man. He fucks Andre with a single-minded purpose, stroking him back to hardness with a gentle but inexorable hand, until Andre is writhing, begging wordlessly, and still Brett keeps going.

“Don’t let him come yet,” Braden says, and Andre wants to protest but words are well beyond him at this point.

When Brett comes, he kisses Andre tenderly, fitting his thumb against the hinge of Andre’s jaw before pulling away.

“You can make him come whenever you want,” Braden says, and Andre manages to get an eye open enough to see TJ getting into place.

There’s very little resistance when TJ slides inside. Fully sheathed, he grins down at him. “You want me to torture you, kiddo? Make you beg like Braden’s been doing?”

Andre musters what he hopes is a respectable glare, but from the way TJ’s grin widens, he probably missed the mark.

Tom kisses Andre’s wrist, stroking featherlight fingers across his palm as if reminding him of his presence as TJ begins to move. Braden’s leaning forward, his cheek pressed to Andre’s, hand still wrapped around Andre’s other wrist. He’s whispering something in Andre’s ear but Andre can’t understand him through the roaring in his ears. 

He rolls his head, butting against Braden’s cheek and whining high in his throat. He needs to come, but TJ’s not touching him except for the hand on Andre’s hip to brace for his thrusts.

“Braden,” Andre slurs, and Braden turns his head, catches Andre’s mouth in a sloppy, ill-fitting kiss.

“I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, and as if he gave a signal, TJ takes hold of Andre’s shaft. It takes a handful of strokes, a half-dozen thrusts, and Andre’s body locks up with the force of his orgasm, spilling over TJ’s hand with a helpless noise. He’s barely aware of TJ freezing above him, making a noise through gritted teeth and then kissing him sweetly before pulling out.

Tom and Braden let go of his hands at the same time, leaving Andre feeling bereft, sprawled out on the couch, an exhausted puddle. He tries to sit up, but his limbs aren’t working, and then Tom is there, gently holding him down with a hand on his chest.

“We’re not done yet,” he says. 

Andre shivers all over.

“We’re gonna give you a few minutes to catch your breath,” Tom continues. “But we’re definitely not done yet.”

Braden kneels beside them, holding a glass of water. “Can you sit up enough to drink this?”

Andre tries again to make his body cooperate, and this time gets to an elbow. He drains the glass in thirsty gulps, then accepts the cheese and meat Tom gives him from the tray on the table. He can only manage a few bites before his arm gives out and he lies down again, but Braden pats his shoulder.

“Good job,” he says. “Can you hear me, Burk?”

Andre nods. He’s exhausted, wants nothing more than to fall asleep, preferably with Tom or Braden holding him, but Braden wants him to listen, so he does his best to pay attention.

Braden’s eyes are soft and he leans forward, peppers kisses to Andre’s forehead and cheeks and nose until Andre’s squirming, batting weakly at him.

“Tom and I want to fuck you,” Braden says when he sits back on his heels, and Andre nods so fast he makes himself dizzy. Braden frowns, shakes his head. “I don’t think you understand, Burky. We both want to fuck you. At the same time.”

Andre opens his mouth. Closes it again. Looks at Tom, who looks steadily back but says nothing. The others are scattered around the room, most of them seeming on the verge of dozing off, but Nicke is watching them with bright, sharp eyes as Ovi drowses beside him, head on his thigh.

“You mean—”

“Yeah,” Tom says. “Double penetration. You think you’re up for it?”

Andre swallows hard. The idea makes him go hot and shivery all over, the thought of Tom and Braden inside him  _ at the same time, _ both of them holding him in place. He swallows again, tries to find words.

“It’s okay,” Tom says softly. “You don’t have to, Burk, it was just an idea.”

Andre shakes his head hard, struggling to an elbow again. “No, I  _ want—” _ He grabs at Tom’s hand and misses. Tom catches his and holds it as Braden takes Andre’s other hand. “I want both. You both.”

Delight dawns on Braden’s face, a matching smile on Tom’s as they look at him and then each other.

“So… how?” Andre asks. “Because I think… I think my legs probably not gonna hold me up right now.”

Braden laughs, pushing him flat on the couch again. “We talked about it. One of us underneath you, the other on top. We’ll do all the work, okay?”

Andre’s cock twitches. It’s far too soon for him to come again but just the thought has him quivering. “Who underneath, who on top?”

“Do you care?” Braden asks.

Andre shakes his head. “Not if you’re both there.”

Tom leans in and kisses him, lingering against his mouth. “How about me underneath, Braden on top?”

“Oh sure, make  _ me _ do the heavy lifting,” Braden complains, but there’s a smile tugging at his lips, and Andre nods eagerly. 

It takes them a few minutes to get into position, Tom half-sitting, half-lying back against the arm of the couch and Andre straddling him. Andre focuses on getting where he needs to be, making sure Tom is comfortable underneath him, and looks up to see most of the occupants of the room watching him, with the exception of Ovi, who’s fallen asleep and is snoring gently.

“We’ve got an audience,” Braden says, smoothing a hand down Andre’s back. “You okay with that?”

Andre snorts. “Everyone in this room but you two fucked me. You think I have a problem  _ now?” _

“Fair enough,” Braden says, grinning. “Willy’s ready for you, looks like.”

Andre glances down. Tom’s been stroking himself back to hardness and he’d put the condom on while Andre was talking to Braden. He raises his eyebrows, waggles them, and Andre can’t help the laugh as he knee-walks into place. 

He’s loose and stretched and sloppy with lube, feeling used and abused in the best possible way, and he sinks down in one swift motion that makes them both gasp. Tom clutches at his hips, clearly trying to keep from bucking up into him, and Andre wriggles, loving the feel of his body opening to accept Tom’s cock. He rolls his shoulders and stretches, breathing deep. He’s not hard, probably won’t be for awhile, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is this, Tom’s hands pressing bruises into his skin, his dark eyes staring up at him, mouth slightly open. Andre was right about his legs not working—he tries to lift up and slide down and doesn’t get halfway up before his thighs give out. Tom laughs out loud and Andre bends forward, pressing his face to Tom’s collarbone to hide his own smile.

Braden touches Andre’s back, rubbing small circles over the divots of his hips and then down, sliding a finger through the slippery wetness there, circling Tom’s shaft with one finger.

“You just hold still,” Braden tells Andre. “Can you do that? Like you are is perfect.”

Andre nods, mouth suddenly dry, and Tom rubs his forearm comfortingly as Braden gets into position.

He doesn’t immediately force his way inside though. Instead he presses one finger in, alongside Tom’s shaft, easing in and out as Andre breathes through it. Then he adds another, and this makes Andre shift, the stretch and burn stinging. There’s arousal still simmering low in his belly but he can’t get hard again, this is for Tom and Braden, his goodbye gift to them. 

“You good?” Braden says, and Andre nods wordlessly.

Braden adds a third finger. Andre’s mouth falls open on a silent cry and he shoves his face hard against Tom’s clavicle, clinging to him with desperate fingers. The arousal sparks and spreads, building molten fire in his core as Braden works him open, slow and steady, refusing to be rushed.

Tom and Andre are both panting for air by the time Braden pulls his fingers out and shuffles into place.

“Bear down when I push in,” he instructs, and Andre can feel the blunt head of his cock nudging his opening. He tenses, briefly, and Braden leans in, kisses along his neck. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs. He nips at Andre’s jaw. “Let me in, sweetheart.”

There’s pressure at Andre’s opening, big and unyielding and Andre can’t, he can’t do it, it’s too much, Braden is pushing forward and Andre is opening his mouth to tell him to stop when he slips past the ring of muscle and in.

Andre goes rigid. It’s so much, so overwhelming, Braden sliding deeper in tiny increments, forcing his way inside and taking over his senses in every possible way. He’s tight, full to overflowing, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. He breathes through his nose, sharp, short gasps mirrored by Tom beneath him. Andre mouths absently at Tom’s clavicle, feeling the jut of bone under his tongue, as Braden bottoms out and folds forward, planting a kiss on Andre’s shoulder blade.

“You’re so perfect,” he whispers. 

When he pulls out, Andre whimpers and Tom groans, thrusting up in the space opened up before Braden pushes back in again. The slow push-pull drag of both cocks inside Andre has shut off his brain. All he can feel, all he can focus on, is the relentless slide and thrust, in and out, stretching him wide and holding him in place.

He loses his grip on time somewhere in there, everything blurring into Tom-Braden-Tom-Braden as they fuck him slow and relentless, matching their rhythms perfectly, and he’s dimly shocked to realize he’s gotten hard again somewhere along the way, his shaft rubbing against Tom’s perfect abs and sending shocky sparks through him with every shift of their bodies.

“I’m close,” Tom husks, clutching Andre’s hips a little tighter. “Braden, I’m—”

“Come then,” Braden growls, grinding deep into Andre’s core, and Tom makes a broken noise and goes still.

Andre rolls his head and kisses Tom’s throat. It tastes like sweat. He does it again. He’s still hard, and Braden’s still inside him, still fucking him, and he wants desperately to come but he doesn’t know if he  _ can. _

Tom’s softening cock slips out but he holds Andre in place. “Right here,” he says. “Stay right here so I can watch your face.”

Braden picks up the pace and Andre moans as Braden shifts, tilting until he’s got the right angle to nail Andre’s prostate on every pass. 

The shocky sparks feel like electricity now, lighting him up from the inside, leaving him shaking with every thrust, begging helplessly in a broken mixture of Swedish and English.

“Get him off,” Braden instructs, and he only sounds a  _ little _ breathless. Andre would devote more energy to wondering if Braden is actually human, but Tom’s slipped a hand between them and he’s jacking Andre steadily, eyes on his. Andre’s back bows, his toes curling as his head falls back and Braden sucks a mark into his throat.

The orgasm rolls through him like a tidal wave, sweeping him up and carrying him along. He’s helpless against it, sobbing as he collapses forward onto Tom’s chest and Braden drives home one final time and goes still.

Andre heaves a gasping breath and lets the water pull him under, into the deep.

He wakes up in Braden’s huge bed, clean, warm, and dry, and aching in every muscle. There’s a weight on his left arm, and someone pressed up against his back. Andre lifts his head, suppressing the groan. Tom’s asleep on his left, Braden on his right. On Braden’s other side, Nicke and Ovi are curled around each other. Jakub and Brett are sound asleep past Tom, and TJ tiptoes from the bathroom as Andre surveys the room.

“Hey,” he whispers. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got run over by a train,” Andre says. He sits up, wincing. He’s going to feel this for a week, if not more, and he’s going to love every minute of it, of this reminder of the men who had welcomed him into the NHL, who taught him so much and loved him so fiercely, fought for and with him, who’d lifted the Cup alongside him.

He smiles at TJ. “Thank you,” he says. “Tell Lauren everything.”

TJ grins at him. “Oh, don’t worry, I will.” His eyes soften. “We’re gonna miss you, bud.”

Andre nods, eyes stinging, and he looks down at his lap. When he looks up, TJ is gone. Andre lies down again, pressing back into Braden’s warmth and pulling Tom closer. He has to go soon, but at least he can have this for a few more minutes. He closes his eyes and falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: these are fanon versions of both Tom Wilson and Alexander Ovechkin, meaning I'm choosing to gloss over certain aspects of their real lives. This was written for fun and I'm not going to get into a debate with anyone about ethics or morality over it, so please don't bother. HOWEVER, if you'd like to talk to me, [I am on Tumblr](http://greymichaela.tumblr.com) where I have emotions about a lot of hockeyeurs but especially goalies, and I promise I'm nice. (And very very sad about Tyson leaving the Avs)


End file.
